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by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Picaresque-verse [7]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-11
Updated: 2005-11-11
Packaged: 2019-10-02 23:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: Because when your original characters start insisting on giving one another meaningful looks and putting their hands on one another's knees, the Imp must be appeased.





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**Author's Note:**

> Posted to LiveJournal by Tessabeth in 2005, ported to AO3 by Gloria fourteen years later.

“Hsst! Will!”

A wicked, smile-filled whisper comes out of the dark of the hold, and Will turns, hefts the lanthorn. But he can see no-one, only bales and barrels, low beams and the narrow passageway wending between the stores.

“This way, aye, come on!”

It’s one of them, but he can’t tell who. Either, or both: their voices are eerily alike. He tries to look stern, and says, “I’m busy, gents; Jack wants this lot all counted and accounted this afternoon. No time for distractions, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, forget that; come on over here, and you might… why, you might be able to barter some help in your labours, how’s that for a plan? Many hands, light work, all that shite?”

Barter, eh? Will feels a surge of laughter in his gut, something that’s never far away when the Shaftoes are nearby. “But I fear I’ve naught to barter with,” he says innocently, pushing his hair back off his forehead and simpering a little for the benefit of his audience. “Being but a penniless sailor.”

A low chuckle, and: “You’re rich enough in the coin I’m seeking,” says the voice teasingly. “Come on, Will; here, down here!”

Will peers into the dark crevasse between the boxes and crates, and sees something white, waving. A shirt; which means that someone’s not wearing it. He gives up on his pretence of resistance, though he continues to play the game, for the entertainment of his boys.

“Very well,” he says, “though you’re speaking in riddles; truly, I’ve nothing to offer in trade for your assistance.” He has to turn sideways to fit through a particularly narrow section, and as soon as he’s through, an arm snakes out from a gap to his right and he’s hauled into a small, cavelike space, hidden between hessian-covered bales. He curses, laughing, and twists round, holding up the lanthorn to see who dragged him in here.

It’s Danny. Lounging shirtless against something that’s stamped, very clearly, with the letters ‘VOC’. As are most of the contents of this part of the hold. His long hair is loose, and falling over one glittery eye. The lanthorn, held high, throws shadows over every curve and muscle of his torso; one thumb is hooked into his breeches, and they sit low, pulling against his hips. Will instinctively licks his lips. And yet… it’s Danny. It’s _only_ Danny.

“Where’s Jimmy?” Will says, confused, and a little concerned. Danny just shrugs, and grins. “Don’t need him, do we?”

He takes a step towards Will, takes the light from his hand, and hooks it on the beam. It’s warm down here, but even so, Will can feel the heat of Danny’s closeness. His heart’s thumping. It’s… mmm. Somehow quite deliciously _wrong_ to be here with him, in this quiet secret place, without his twin. They don’t do this. Ever. But then… Will’s discovered a taste for the forbidden, lately. Oh yes.

Danny wraps an arm round Will’s waist, pulling him close, and slips a hand up into Will’s hair. “I’ll give you ten minutes’ help,” he mutters, “for a kiss.”

Will frowns. “Is that all a kiss from me’s worth, then?”

“You have been known to give ‘em away for free,” says Danny. “Thought you’d be happy to be earnin’.”

“Fifteen,” says Will.

“Better be good,” says Danny, and Will grins wider still. “I tell you what,” he says, “make it twenty, and I’ll throw in… this.” And he slowly loosens the ties of his shirt, and (in a deliciously sinful manner that he learned, naturally, from Jack Sparrow) pulls it over his head.

Danny groans, and his mouth’s on Will’s the very moment that the linen reveals Will’s lips. Will’s arms are still tangled in his sleeves over his head, but he’s too captivated by the glorious heat of Danny’s kiss, for a moment, to fight his way free. Just stands there, swaying bonelessly against Danny, his knuckles grazing the decking above them. Danny’s fierce today, fierce and keen, his stubbled jaw rasping against Will’s, his teeth sharp on Will’s lip. He strokes his way up Will’s body, hands shivering over the soft damp hair in Will’s armpits, caressing the soft pale skin inside his arms, and finally freeing Will of his shirt’s clutches. Will winds his arms around Danny’s back, pulling him closer, and their hips crash together.

Mmm, Danny’s hard already (what’s he been doing, down here, waiting for Will to come along?) and Will savours the warm swelly bloodrush of his own response, instantly more than half-hard himself.

“Aye,” mutters Danny against Will’s ear, as he slides his palms over the muscles of Will’s shoulders and the lines of his collarbones. “That’s definitely worth twenty minutes’ hard labour, that is.” He steals one last kiss, and then begins to lick and suck his way down Will’s neck, his thumbs rolling over Will’s nipples, teasing them to solidity.

It’s good, oh yes; good, and it’s _Danny_ , all hard and handsome and sure of himself in that way the Shaftoe boys have, that way that makes Will just want to give himself over to their every whim. Which he does, quite regularly. And yet…

It’s strange, really strange, to only have one mouth on him. Only two hands. No-one behind him, grinding warmly against his arse. It’s almost like… like having only half a person with him. Which isn’t fair, not at all, for he knows them each, by now, as individual men, and likes ‘em both, oh, more than he’d care to admit. But they don’t do _this_ without one another. Or haven’t, anyhow, not to date. And it’s been, what, a good three or four months. He’d rather thought that if they were going to do this, it’d be before now.

He threads his fingers into Danny’s hair, now barely at his chest-height as Danny kneels, continuing to suckle his way down Will’s body. Oh, Lord, that mouth, that tongue! It never seems to dry up. Just keeps licking, sliding, swirls and loops and beautiful heat.

“Danny,” he whispers, as feet pound the deck above, and the lanthorn shudders and swings, “really, where’s Jimmy? Does he know that you’re here, with me?”

Danny pauses for a second. He takes Will’s arse in his broad hands, holding him, squeezing him. He looks up, his eyes much darker than usual, and Will’s bemused, all over again, by just how handsome he is; how handsome they are. Oh, those shoulders! The curve of that chest, pressing against Will’s groin!

“No,” Danny says, eventually. “He don’t know.”

“Don’t you think that he’d be… that he’d mind? I could go and find him?”

“No,” says Danny, too quickly. He rubs his cheekbone over the line of Will’s cock, licks the tender skin just above his breeches. “Let’s just… be the two of us, for a change.”

“Um,” says Will, who’s finding that, caught as he is between Danny’s clutching hands and his persistent tongue, he’s being kept pretty happy with just the one brother after all. Maybe, if he went and found Jimmy later, and… well, made it up to him?

Danny, unaware of Will’s urge to acquiesce, continues his argument as though seeking a conversion. “We can do things, with two, that we can’t with three,” he murmurs, his head to one side, an enticing expression on his face.

“We can?”

“To be sure, we can. Good things, William. And don’t you think…” He stands again, slowly, and nuzzles Will’s neck and ear, as his hair tickles over Will’s arm. “Don’t you think it might be good wi’out that great geck laughin’ an’ carryin’ on all the time?”

“Have you two had a fight?” asks Will, slipping his thumbs into Danny’s breeches and rolling them over the fine hot skin that covers his hipbones.

“No, no… Will, listen, this ain’t anything to do with me an’ Jimmy,” Danny insists, becoming a little frustrated by the sound of it. “We’re two separate fellows, you know. I just wanted to be with you. To, to do things with you. Is that such a sin, eh?”

“Noooo,” says Will slowly, dipping his thumbs lower, where the skin is so very velvety, and the muscle so hard and close to the surface, and then encountering wiry curls, and then…

“Yesss,” hisses Danny, pushing against him. “Go on, Will, don’t stop there. Oh, yes…”

Will’s getting quite seriously fired up now. Jesus, Danny’s cock is rigid, and oooh, how it twitches when he takes a hold of it, as he’s popping buttons open with his other hand. Danny’s reaching into Will’s breeches, now, and running his tongue around Will’s ear, chanting, _yes, yes, yes Mr Turner_ in time with his own hips’ rhythm.

“So, tell me,” says Will, a little breathlessly, “tell me what two can do, that three can’t, for I confess I thought we’d done most everything, the three of us.”

“You really want to know?” murmurs Danny, teasingly, as he wriggles his hips, letting Will push his breeches down over the high curve of his arse.

“If you’re after my participation, Mr Shaftoe, you’ve no choice but to educate me.”

“Orlright,” (the twins’ brogue intensifies, markedly, when they’re in the throes): “But, Will, listen; ‘tis just between you an’ me, eh?”

“What?” Will’s mystified, truly he is.

“You an’ me! Swear it, William!” And Danny nips at his earlobe, not at all gently, to punctuate his request.

“Ow! You and me, just you and me, I promise! What?” His interest is truly piqued now, by Danny’s vehemence, not to mention the depth of his enthusiasm.

“Just you an’ me, eh? Well, ain’t that fookin’ lovely?” says Danny, mysteriously angry, before he jerks upright, hitting his head on the lanthorn and blaspheming. He whips his hands out of Will’s breeches, backs out of Will’s grip, and squints over Will’s shoulder, scowling. Will turns, and clarity (of a rather horrid sort) ensues. Not Danny, after all.

“Fookin’ _lovely_ ,” says Jimmy again, his fists clenching, staring daggers at his brother, and then giving Will a bitter look.

“Jimmy,” says Will, summoning up a placating smile, “I—I didn’t know where you were, but I really, you know, um, felt like it; so I thought we could, ah, take turns.” He doesn’t look at Danny. Can hear him, pulling his trousers back on.

“Oh, spare me,” says Jimmy witheringly. “I’m not deaf. _Just betwixt you an’ me, I swear it!_ ” he mimics, in a sly falsetto. “Well you can fookin’ have each other then.”

He turns to leave, and Will grabs at his arm, crying, “No, Jimmy, you’ve got it wrong, I don’t want Danny over you, I want you both, oh both!”

But Jimmy wrenches violently away with a curse, steps back into the darkness, and is gone.

*

Will’d known that they were two different people, and this situation right here’s a perfect illustration of the fact.

Neither of them are talking to him, haven’t done all afternoon. But they’re avoiding him in very different manners. Danny’s just disappeared; Will’s hunted high and low, but every time he catches a glimpse, and starts to make his way towards him, Danny ducks and weaves and fades away. Whereas Jimmy—oh, he’s right there, in amongst everyone, laughing and joking and having a fine old time. It just so happens that William Turner’s apparently invisible to him, and inaudible what’s more. Will’s voice, his pleading gaze, even an outstretched hand, just slide right off him, like water from oilskin.

Two different ways, and Will hates both of them with a passion. He’s utterly annoyed; for if there’s one relatively innocent party here, surely it’s himself? Whatever Jimmy’s done to make Danny want to sneak behind his brother’s back, isn’t it something that the two of them should be discussing?

By suppertime, his irritation is seguing into frustrated despair; and, when neither one of them turns up to his habitual place at the Captain’s table, it can hardly go unnoticed by their father. Or Jack Sparrow, for that matter. The table’s very empty, with only the Captain, Mr Gibbs, Jack Shaftoe, and Will.

At first, Jack Sparrow’s sanguine, insisting that they’ll turn up shortly, and the rest of ‘em shouldn’t stand on ceremony; with which, he helps himself from the great pot of stew. But Shaftoe looks narrow-eyed at Will, as if he can see right through him, and puts down his knife.

“What’ve they done, then?” he asks, flatly.

Will shrugs, and stares out the window, wondering to himself whether there is any collected audience less conducive to intimate confidences than one composed of a) his own previous lover, b) the father of both his current lovers, who (what’s more) replaced him in his previous lover’s affections, and c) an elderly fellow who generally disapproves of the whole business.

“What?” insists Shaftoe, his voice sharp enough that Will remembers why he finds the man rather intimidating from time to time.

“They’re arguing,” he says, vaguely. “Avoiding one another, I think. D’they do that often, Jack?”

“Never,” says Shaftoe, and frowns. “What’re they arguing about?”

“I don’t know,” claims Will. “Things.”

“Fighting over you, eh?” says Jack Sparrow with his usual irritating perspicacity, waving a chicken wing in Will’s direction. “How very awkward for you, William.”

“Pass the porter,” says Gibbs, pretending the conversation isn’t veering in _that_ direction. Will does, filling his own tankard en route.

“Not surprising, really,” says Sparrow, philosophically. “Jealousy, it’s a dreadful thing. Why, Jack, just look at the lengths I had to go to to get over my minor envy of you and Princess Indilla, eh?”

“Excessive lengths,” Shaftoe agrees, nodding gravely, even though Will can tell he wants to laugh.

“Cain’t be easy, with three of you. P’rhaps you ain’t bin being impartial,” says Sparrow. “I can see how that might happen. Jimmy’s disposition’s a lot more even than ol’ Danny’s, any fool could see that.”

“Oi!” says Shaftoe. “Daniel’s a sensitive fellow, I’ll have you know.”

Gibbs snorts into his porter at the notion of a Sensitive Shaftoe, an oxymoron if ever he’s heard one. Will snorts too, at Sparrow’s assumption that Danny’s the offended party.

“But I’m _not_ partial,” he insists, after a moment’s silence. “I’m not. It’s just that… that one of them thinks I am, and he’s annoyed.”

“So tell him you’re not,” says Shaftoe, and Sparrow improves on the suggestion, with, “ _Show_ him you’re not, William.”

“How can I, when I can’t get near him? Besides which, then I’d just set the other one off.”

“True. So there’s only one thing for it, lad,” says Jack Shaftoe. He gives Will a sympathetic look, as if he’s something very unpleasant in store. “I’m sorry; but you’re just going to have to sit down and _discuss_ it with ‘em. Mediate. Mend bridges. All that shit.”

Sparrow winces melodramatically. Shaftoe laughs. Gibbs drains his tankard without a word, and Will, sighing, re-fills it for him.

*

He sees Jimmy, up in the waist playing at dice with Jamie Martingale and old Stone, and puts up with the brief and dirty glare, saying nothing. There’s no point going to Jimmy, without knowing what the hell Danny’s problem was in the first place.

Danny’s still elusive, more so in the thick blackness of the equatorial night. But Will gets lucky; Picken, noticing Jimmy’s evil eye as he’s sliding down the last few yards of the backstay from the mainmast, punches Will on the shoulder as he passes and says, “Maybe you’ll have more luck with the other one, mate; wouldn’t bet on it, though, he’s in a stinker of a mood.”

“He is? Where is he?”

Picken just jerks his head upwards.

Perfect. Easy to corner.

The maintop’s big enough for two. Hell, Will recalls it being big enough for three on one rather delightful occasion, though it was a fraught exercise. But Danny’s glowering mood seems to take up far more space than his spare, hunched body.

“Don’t let Seamus see you,” he mutters. Will’s perfectly sure that Jimmy did see him, and knows that they’re up here, above his head. He peers down at the little pool of lanthornlight, at the sprawled figures, and he can see the way Martingale’s angled himself, his head close to Jimmy’s, and the way Jimmy’s… letting him. He seethes silently.

“I won’t have this,” he declares, settling himself on the platform, wriggling closer to Danny even as Danny shuffles over to give him room. “This is stupid. I won’t lose either or you, or choose one of you over the other, Dan, you’re both too much to me.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.”

“Yes, you were!”

“Bollocks I was! I’m just… Jaysus, Will, he’s just me brother, I’m not married to the fecker.”

“Have you argued with him? What’s the problem here?”

“No problem! I just wanted to… to be with you without him.”

There’s a shiftiness to the way Danny’s staring out over Will’s shoulder, at the fat yellow moon, that makes Will disbelieve him, and press harder. He puts his hand on Danny’s solid thigh, digging his fingers in, and leans closer, bringing the two of them into their own little world of shadowy, hair-framed secrecy. “Why?” he murmurs. “Why now? Why, Danny?”

Danny meets Will’s eyes, and his gaze is bright and liquid in the moonlight. “You think me an’ him share everything, feel the same about everything, don’t you?”

This would be a hard one to dispute. Will nods, curious.

“We do, mostly. Which is why it’s so hard when one of us wants… something different.”

“Such as?”

“Such as,” says Danny, and he licks his lips, and then they quirk up into a sardonic smile, and he shrugs. “Such as, what you get, William.”

“What I…?” says Will, not understanding for a moment, and then thinking that he does, and being perfectly confounded. Is Danny saying that he wants…?

“Aye, aye, I know, it don’t work that way with us,” scowls Danny. “Fookin’ leave it, pretend I never asked. Give fookin’ Jimmy a few days an’ he’ll calm down.”

“You want me to fuck you?” says Will, ignoring whatever it was Danny said; he wasn’t really listening at all, being all hotly taken with this idea. Oh, yes! Oh, God, yes! “But you two never let me—”

“I _know_ ,” snaps Danny. “Because we ain’t… it ain’t us. He’d never fookin’ let me forget it. It was just an idea, it ain’t important.”

But ooh, yes, it is important. It is now. Will’s full of it. Mmm, Lord, yes. He hasn’t done that since Jack. Who was utterly flexible in terms of who did what to whom. Frequently within the timeframe of a single evening.

“An’ you probably… don’t, either,” adds Danny, doubtfully.

“Yes I do,” murmurs Will, biting at his lip. “I certainly do. Would. _Will_.” He runs his hand up Danny’s leg, rolls his thumb into the crease of his hip. Bends, and kisses Danny’s neck, licking at his sweaty skin. “I want to,” he says.

“You do?”

“ _Fook_ yes,” Will says in what he (optimistically) considers a Shaftoesque manner.

“Don’t even try it, your accent’s shite,” says Danny happily, and he takes hold of the back of Will’s neck, and kisses him, hard, on the mouth. Will opens his lips, lets Danny in, and there’s a gorgeous surge of heat and lust for a moment, till Will twists away.

“But not without Jimmy,” he says.

Danny’s nostrils flare, and he snaps his jaw closed again, making a disgusted noise.

“Just let me talk to him,” Will says, and then, “No, let’s talk to him together. Come on, Dan.”

Danny says nothing.

“You two can say anything to one another. Come, he’s your _brother_. He’s our Jimmy. He won’t say no, not to both of us. And maybe, mmm, Danny, maybe he wants it too, and won’t say aught to you.”

“No fookin’ chance.”

“Well, that’s the deal,” says Will, losing patience with this uncharacteristic reticence. Dear God, they’re stubborn. “We talk to him now, or we never ever mention it ever again. And that’d be…” he can’t hold back a little wicked smile, at the thought of Danny’s smooth, muscled, delectable arse. “Oh, that’d be a terrible shame. Come on, I thought a _Shaftoe_ would do anything?” he taunts.

Danny cuffs him, and swings himself down onto the futtock shrouds. Will follows him, unable to contain his smile. One down. One to go.

*

The second one’s been drinking, and is being Difficult to Handle.

“Fook off, I’m in the middle of a game.”

Will grabs Danny’s arm to stop him storming off, and pulls him (glowering) down to the deck, beside Jimmy. “We’ll wait,” he says.

“Oh, _we_ will, will _we_?” snarls Jimmy. He takes another swig from the round bottomed bottle that’s being passed about, and Danny grabs it from him, helping himself, and mercifully not rising to his twin’s taunts. Will puts a hand on the small of Jimmy’s back, rolling his thumb around, stroking him gently, trying to settle him.

Stone throws a two and a three, tuts, and gives Jimmy the dice. Jimmy throws—seven—and grins. A vile curse from Stone, a laugh from Martingale.

“I’ve had bloody enough,” says Stone. “I’m out.” He pushes a pile of blackened coins toward Jimmy (who pockets them) and lurches to his feet. “Gi’s me dice, boys, I’m for bed.”

“Still playing,” says Jimmy, twitching away from Will’s touch. “You can have ‘em tomorrow.”

Will looks over to Jamie, and tells him a quick story in a silent language of winks and head-nods. Jamie’s a good sort, and sharp. He gives his quirky half-smile, and says, “Nah, Jimmy, I’m done too. Call it a night, eh? I’ve no more to give you, any rate.”

Jimmy knows when he’s being ganged up on. He hands up Stone’s scrimshaw, and Will takes him by the wrist, hauling him to his feet. “Come on,” he says. “We need you.”

Jimmy waits till his mates are out of earshot, and then whispers, savagely, “Didn’t fookin’ need me this afternoon, did ye?” He wrenches out of Will’s grasp.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Will snaps. “You’ve got it wrong.” He grabs Jimmy’s head with both hands, and before he can escape (not that any serious attempt seems imminent) kisses him on his flushed lips. Rum and Shaftoe; it’s always a fine combination. He breathes in deep, and nudges against Jimmy’s closed lips with his tongue.

Jimmy makes a brief, resistant noise, and then relaxes against Will and kisses him back, admitting his tongue, and Will flushes with relief—he’s won!—until his lip is bitten, quick and hard and viciously enough to draw blood.

“Ow!” shouts Will, rearing back and barely restraining himself from punching the man in the ribs. “What the hell was that for?”

“Made me feel better,” says Jimmy unrepentantly. “Now, what the fook do you want from me?”

“Not much,” says Will angrily, licking his lip and tasting blood. “Only your hands and your cock. The rest of you’s a nasty bastard.”

Jimmy laughs, and kisses Will again, gently this time. “Nah,” he says. “But you better have a good reason for this afternoon.” He’s staring past Will, at his brother, as he says that.

“Come on,” says Danny, and he leads them below.

*

Will knows, from past experience, that a lot of things which might seem a little… inappropriate, suddenly seem a lot more enticing when your blood’s up. So he’s brought the rum bottle with them, and when they’re all down in their cabin, passing it back and forth and eyeing one another a little warily (Will’s lip is swelling and stinging) he’s not backward about starting something. He takes a mouthful of rum, and sidles up against Jimmy, kissing him, sharing the sweet syrupy heat with him. The cut lip burns brightly. He reaches behind himself for Danny, tugs him over to stand behind Will’s back.

It’s odd to have to encourage them this way. They’re always taking him on together, knowing what they’re going to do without words. It’s as if they’re so annoyed with one another tonight that they’ve shut down that secret channel of twin communication; and that feels, even at a remove, like the loss of a sense. Sight or smell or touch, amputated.

Still, even as individuals they’re not doing a _bad_ job. Jimmy’s kisses are warming up, and he’s tugging at the front of Will’s shirt, and pushing a thigh between Will’s. Will grinds against it, as Danny, behind him, pushes Will’s hair out of the way and bites gently on his neck. Stands close, then closer, and Will smiles a small smile to feel the rough scratch of stubble on his shoulder, and Danny’s yard there against his arse. (Not tonight, Daniel.) And there, in front of him, Jimmy’s swelling the same, as Will’s nimble fingers wriggle into his breeches, greedy and encouraging.

“Two,” he mutters. “See, Jimmy? I want two, I tell you.”

Jimmy just grunts at him, recaptures his mouth, and bends him backwards, till his head’s supported on Danny’s shoulder, his neck exposed, and Jimmy kisses his way down across Will’s Adam’s apple, pulling the neck of Will’s shirt wide, plucking its hem from his breeches as Danny reaches round, blindly flipping open buttons, and Will sighs and groans in delight. He lifts his arms complaisantly and lets Jimmy pull off his shirt, Danny push down his breeches. With a wriggle and a shimmy he’s free of it all, pushing it away with one foot, and there are warm, rough Shaftoe hands all over him. Christ, he wants their skin. “And you,” he says happily, and starts ripping and tugging at clothing, and ooh, they’re never slow to bare themselves, not these two. Gorgeous. Gorgeous, and right there against him, fore and aft. Hot creamy skin and thick red-gold hair in the lanthornlight: till Danny reaches out and snuffs it, and they’re engulfed in black.

“What the fook d’ye do that for?” complains Jimmy. “We can’t see him, now.”

Will smiles into the dark, to be something worth looking at. “Ah,” he says, “but there’s some things that’re easier to do without anyone seeing you, don’t you think?”

“I’d do you in blazing midday sun, in front of ten thousand,” asserts Jimmy, pressing possessively against Will.

“An… interesting thought,” says Will, a little breathlessly as Danny’s hands wander over his arse, then push between Will and Jimmy’s close-pressed bellies, and slide up Will’s yard. “But what’d you let me do to _you_ , in the sight of this hypothetical horde?”

“Anything,” mutters Danny, happily, and Jimmy nods into Will’s shoulder, his mouth otherwise occupied.

“Mmm… anything,” Will whispers, and he takes Jimmy by the shoulders, turns him around. Rubs himself against Jimmy’s spine, his nipples shivering over Jimmy’s shoulderblades, and reaches one hand round to slide down the delicious line of muscle that leads from hip to groin. He lavishes kisses on Jimmy’s neck and shoulders, and slips his other hand down over the taut curve of Jimmy’s behind. Slips down. Between. With one fingertip, he finds the pucker of flesh, and presses gently.

He feels Jimmy’s spine tense, and smirks into the warm skin pressed against his mouth.

“ _Nearly_ anything,” says Jimmy warningly, and he turns back to Will.

“Ah, come on,” says Will. “You’d like it, I swear.”

“Nah,” says Jimmy, with laughter in his voice. “Nah, not me.” He walks them all few steps to their wide bed, and they fall onto the mattress in a happy tangle of limbs and kisses.

“Why not?” persists Will. “ _I_ like it. And… and besides, I want to.”

A little pause, and then Danny says, in a slightly strangled voice (Will wants to laugh, just from how hard Danny’s trying not to), “Well, I’ll let you, Will.”

“You will?” says Will innocently, and he squirms around, reaching eagerly down to the warm hard curves of Danny’s arse.

Jimmy’s speechless for a second, and then (quick creature) he lets out a bark of laughter.

“That’s it, ain’t it? That’s what all that secrets-an’-promises crap was about—Jaysus, Dan, you want it up the arse!” His tone is perfectly incredulous, and more than a little appalled, and it riles Will, truly it does. He’s put up with enough of this now.

“And what if he does?” he snaps. “You’ve no problem giving it to _me_ , you bloody hypocrite.”

“But we don’t—”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because we don’t!”

“Don’t you ever wonder, though?” comes Danny’s voice, low in the dark, and Jimmy subsides. “I mean…” He’s stroking Will’s arm, where the muscles are tense with hurt and irritation. “I mean, shite, sometimes I look at his face, Jimmy, when you’re fookin‘ ‘im, and he looks like… ah, like he in’t even here no more, like he’s left this earth. It’s fookin’ gorgeous, you know it is. And I want to know, to know what it’s like, to find out.”

A small silence, and then Jimmy mutters, “So why d’ye have t’avoid me like the bloody plague to find this out?”

“I don’t know: maybe because I knew you’d shout _Jaysus Dan you want it up the arse!_ and never let it go?”

“Well what would _you_ ’ve said, if I asked him to shaft me, eh?”

“The first thought that comes to mind,” says Danny evilly, rubbing his leg along Will’s, “is whether it’s physically possible to fook him, while he’s doin’ it; ‘cause I bet that’d drive him in-fookin’-sane.”

He’s right there. Even the thought of it is making Will a little crazy, and he wriggles and hums, and reaches for them both. They curve into him on either side, Jimmy laughing a little now, and there, their hands and mouths are back on him, their legs twining with his, their strong arms round his waist, his shoulders, his hips, and he’s pushing happily into someone’s hand, and Jimmy’s rubbing his prick against Will’s arse.

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Jimmy murmurs, a little doubtfully. “How’d you do’t?”

A long and highly entertaining discussion, punctuated by frequent experimentation (most of which fails) and much giggling, ensues. Will insists that they cannot possibly gauge the probability of success without decently mimicking the motions required, and this necessitates a prodigious application of oil, which adds, quite noticeably, to everybody’s enjoyment of the experimentation. Especially for Will, trapped between the two of them, sliding and writhing and trying very hard not to slip and accidentally force the issue one way or another.

Oh, God, it’s good. Really good. And the way Danny Shaftoe’s arse presses back against him, clenching; the way Danny’s breathing all hard and deep and expectatious… they’ve abandoned an experiment in standing upright (too hard on the thighs, given their similar heights), and another on their hands and knees (geometrically impossible, is the consensus). Now they’re lying on the bed again, spooned one behind the other on the worn, rucked sheet. Danny’s nearly on his belly, his left knee drawn up, giving Will access; Jimmy’s behind Will, all warm greedy confidence. And Will decides it’s time to try for real. He demands more oil, and smears his hand liberally, sliding it over Danny’s arse, over his balls, back into the warm cleft.

“Relax,” he murmurs in Danny’s ear, and he presses, careful, gentle, and _there_ ; his finger’s gripped so tight, and Lord, how will he ever get his cock in there?

Jimmy turns himself round, and starts licking and biting and sucking at the back of Will’s thighs. Working his way up. He pushes Will’s legs apart, kissing and caressing, and circling his thumb at the entrance to Will’s body. Will grinds back against it, humming softly, and in tiny back and forth increments, he’s working his way into Danny. Velvety, and hot, and tight, so tight. The head of Will’s cock is slipping and sliding against Danny’s oily, sweaty back, and Danny reaches up and back and thrusts his fingers into Will’s hair, clutching at his skull, encouraging him.

“Are you all right?” Will whispers, and Danny says, “No problem, but fooked if I know why you like it so much.”

“Patience,” says Will, with a little gasp as Jimmy’s tongue pushes inside him, and Danny clenches tight around his finger—such a fabulously dirty combination that he’s just about in heaven right now. He adds another careful digit, and the resistance makes Danny hiss, and Jimmy chuff with laughter: “Can’t you take it, Dan?”

“Fook off, Seamus, or you’ll wake up with my fookin’ boot shoved up your arse.”

“Shut up,” says Will, “And let me do this right.”

“Aye,” says Jimmy, “let’s do this right, indeed.” He bestows one more biting kiss, and wriggles back around so that his head is back up with everyone else’s; and then he’s got two fingers inside Will, and Will’s hissing too, but in delight, as Jimmy pushes straight in and rubs just where it makes Will quiver. His head’s all swirly with conflicting desires, to fuck and be fucked, and for once, oh for once, he’s going to get them both. Both. Both, and he can’t wait any longer, but reaches further into Danny, losing his caution, and Danny stiffens under his hands, makes an odd sound, and then says, in a slightly querulous tone, “P’rhaps you should do that again?”

Will does, and Danny squirms. Will grins, and wriggles his right hand under Danny’s body, taking hold of his cock. “This is the good bit,” he mutters. “Both at the same time.” And he strokes Danny hard, inside and out, and Danny heaves a great sighing breath and lets it out in a long, low groan, _Ohhhhhh yeah!_

Jimmy’s cock’s pushing all insistent at Will now, but he says, “Wait, wait just a moment, Jimmy, ‘til I’m…”

“Don’t want to wait, want to fuck you, now Will, now…”

“God, yes, but wait, just a moment, just…” Will kisses Danny’s shoulder, asking permission, and Danny says, “Do it, go on.” And Will lines up his achingly desperate yard, and slips his fingers out and—oh trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt, but wanting so badly to ram and push and shove!—there, the head of his cock is caught tight and Will screws up his face with the freakish glory of it as he feels the same thing happening to himself, though faster and deeper and he can’t quite help pushing in as Jimmy slides home. Danny gasps and Will hisses _sorrysorrysorry_ but oh oh oh that’s good, so damn good, and moving, well, moving just makes it un-fucking-believable.

It’s awkward, that’s for sure, and it takes them several minutes of gasping and fumbling and fighting wordlessly against one another to find out how a rhythm can work… but then, like a key in a lock, it clicks and does; Jimmy slides into Will slides into Danny pushes back against Will pushes back against Jimmy and yes, yes… oh, _yes_.

It’s all sparking and swirling and Will’s trembling with the fabulous strain of keeping it going, just right, just like that, just sweetly so, as it builds in him, as Jimmy’s cock sets off shimmers inside him. Danny’s arse clutches even tighter about his yard, so intense that he can feel his blood pulsing there, and he knows Danny’s feeling the same shivery bittersweet twinge. It’s hard to remember to keep his hand on Danny, and when Danny impatiently takes over, wanting it harder, faster, more, he doesn’t resist.

He wraps both arms around Danny’s hard muscular body, buries his head in Danny’s shoulder, and just rides it and rides it and rides it for long, wonderful minutes of blindness and panting and blackness and deliciously animal noises. He’s held on far beyond what he thought was possible, held on till it’s so beautiful it hurts… and he’s keening long before he hears Danny’s breathy shout, before he feels the deep shudder of orgasm inside Danny’s body, before he cries out _do it do it do it Jimmy_ and Jimmy thrusts wild and deep, once, twice, three times, and then the world’s all starry black and utter pleasure, utter, utter, utter.

He feels dizzy and swimmy as the last shudders wrack him, and he sinks his teeth gently into Danny’s shoulderblade, just anchoring himself. He loosens his hold on Danny, and slumps back against Jimmy’s chest, letting Danny’s body expel his softening prick; Danny rolls over onto his back.

“Are you… was that…?” Will asks awkwardly, praying that the answers’ll be affirmative, because he knows already that he’ll die if he never gets to do that again. He puts a querying hand out to Danny in the dark, finding the hard edge of his still-heaving ribcage.

“Good,” says Danny, rather wonderingly. “I’m good, it was good… all good, William.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

Danny just makes a _pfft_ sort of a noise, and Will realises that even if he’d half disembowelled the man, he wouldn’t admit it in front of his brother. Will’ll just have to remember to check again later.

“You can’t imagine how that felt,” he murmurs. “Both of you, together. That was… I mean, that was… I can’t believe I did that. We did that.”

“I can’t believe fookin’ Danny did that,” says Jimmy, tauntingly, but Danny just laughs, low and happy in the dark.

“What would you know about it, you fookin’ _virgin_ ,” he says, and Will giggles, perfectly certain that it’s only a matter of time before Jimmy’s curiosity, not to mention his competitive streak, get the better of him.

“You know the very best thing about that?” he says, later, when they’ve finished the rum, reorganised themselves right-way-round in the bed, and are settling to sleep. Danny grunts inquisitively, and Jimmy shakes his head, too dozy to speak.

“The best thing about that,” Will whispers, “is that it could only, ever, happen with three.” And he kisses them, one and then the other, on their sleepy, musty mouths, for the joy of falling asleep with the taste of two perfect men upon his lips.


End file.
